baby

Short and Precious

In a world where people seem to be always searching for ways to prolong their lives, I have been learning to find preciousness in the very short lives of my children.

This November, I had the privilege to practice, yet again, the art of having hope and joy in adverse circumstances.

I found out I was pregnant on October 16th. I felt good, confident that this pregnancy would work. As per my normal approach, we told family soon, as well as several friends who I knew would support me and my husband in prayer. I anticipated needing support, because being pregnant after miscarriage, let alone stillbirth, is a complicated, scary thing.

On November 2nd we chose a name, Ariel Joy. Lion of God; Joy

November 4th, I went to hospital in an ambulance, experiencing heavy bleeding. My friend and pastor went with me. My husband, and later her husband too, met us at the hospital.

There were various tests and checks. The obstetrician’s eyes were flooded with compassion as he held my hand and confirmed that it was indeed a miscarriage. Ariel Joy had gone to live with her brothers, Jeremiah and Theodore John.

Among it all, I had unexplainable peace. To be truthful, I was very surprised to miscarry this baby. Things felt different this time, and I truly believed that I would be raising this child.

It has greatly helped me to already be sure that my first two children are safely and joyfully living in heaven. Ariel has joined my sons in their glorious home. She is not lost to me.

As I have said to one or two friends, “Ariel has moved from my womb into my heart.”

Ariel’s short life is precious to me and treasured by me. I look forward to the day when I get to hold her in my arms at last, to cradle her against me, to feel her warm breath on my neck.

Ariel’s life, like the lives of her brothers before her, is short and precious.

And God? He is good.

Advertisements

I Remember

IMG_20140829_160214

I remember wanting to pack my hospital bags, and refusing to, because I was only just over 20 weeks.

I remember being nearly 24 weeks along and choosing not to worry, because what is the point of worrying anyway?

I remember my own incomprehension as I looked at the screen, while the ultrasound technician searched, wondering why it looked so different to the other times.

I remember the tears of the ultrasound technician as she told us she was so sorry, but she couldn’t find the heartbeat.

I remember the way nurses and assistants rushed to help in any way they could, even in things as small as finding me apple juice.

I remember my shock at finding out this was a stillbirth, not a miscarriage, and the terror at finding out I would actually have to give birth very soon.

I remember Anna, one of my midwives, praying for us and crying with us.

I remember coming home to pack for a stay in hospital, not knowing how long I would be there.

I remember thinking Theodore was going to be a girl, because that is what it looked like on the scan (even though the baby had been Theodore from the start), and packing cream and pink wool for knitting – just in case the stay was long.

I remember the gentleness of the staff, and their consideration in putting us in a room away from full term mothers and babies.

I remember feeling like it was not going to be a long wait until the baby was born, and the midwives being careful not to encourage my thinking too much, because usually it can take quite a while.

I remember constantly being on my phone; I felt so loved.

I remember hoping for an amazing miracle. We asked God for a sign. If we were asked if we wanted one more ultrasound, then we would know Theodore would miraculously live again.

I remember not getting that sign, and knowing that Theodore was gone.

I remember the fear of labour and of the unknown being replaced by peace and joy.

I remember trying not to grin like a lunatic while the midwife was being serious and compassionate.

I remember when I knew for sure I was in labour.

I remember the swiftness of the process, the speed with which my body worked to deliver my son.

I remember that whenever the pain reached a point where I did not think I could handle any more, it would change.

I remember the feel of my son slipping out of me.

I remember knowing in that moment that he was too small, that I did not actually want the miracle I had previously been hoping for.

I remember saying in my head, “God, I want the baby to stay with you!”

I remember how time stood still, and how this sacred time was marked by the clock in the room literally stopping for an hour or two.

I remember how warm he was. He had the warmth of my own body.

I remember how I saw him and loved him.

I remember how amazed I was at how much joy I could feel – so much joy that sorrow was completely pushed aside – at the sight and feel of my very own son.

I remember how tacky some of his skin was, and how the rough towel stuck to it until he was placed in something softer.

I remember how big his hands and feet seemed. I remember being so excited at Theodore’s birth that I messaged as many people as I thought would want to hear, even though it was the early hours of the morning.

I remember waking up the next morning, and being reluctant to look at my son, because I didn’t know if he would look different.

I remember he looked even more beautiful. His skin had stopped being so purple in tone and had become pink.

I remember the vernix making him look like he had a little moustache.

I remember holding him, but being too nervous to kiss him, because I was scared of how his skin would feel.

I remember how hard the bridge of his nose was, and how taut his Achilles tendon was.

I remember how he had no kneecaps, but did have the sharpest elbows I have ever felt.

I remember his tongue. It was a normal tongue colour even though the rest of his skin was not a normal baby pink.

I remember how glad I was that he was beyond pain and injury whenever I had to move him or hold his head, because the skull portions would move around so much.

I remember making a conscious effort to memorise him. I would measure his foot against my finger to know how long it was (the top half of my thumb), and I would pay attention to the cool barely-there weight he was when resting on my thigh.

I remember how his head was covered with fine blond fuzz, and how soft it felt.

I remember turning him over and looking at his back, with the miniature spine, and how he really had no bottom yet at all.

I remember how he fit, curled up, in my hand.

I remember turning his exquisite hand over and gasping in amazement at the lines and creases on his palms.

I remember people saying he looked like Julian, and insisting that his brow and nose was like mine.

I remember being too busy with visitors to have time to eat, so I would ask the nurses to bring me sandwiches and milo.

I remember haunting the halls in the middle of the night, while my sleeping husband lay next to our baby, because my heart and body longed to hear the crying of babies.

I remember how Theodore fit in my hands, but how my arms longed for a baby to hold.

I remember, finally coming across a baby. He was being held by his father in the waiting room. The father let me hold him, and I remember how the father’s eyes went all red and teary. He said to me that they had had a stillbirth only a year earlier, and earnestly encouraged me not to give up.

I remember knowing he would have let me hold his precious baby for as long as I wanted to, and how my arms felt relieved to be filled.

I remember how hard it was to leave our baby alone in a cot when we finally left the hospital and went back to our own house.

I remember how listless and aimless and awkward we felt when we arrived home, after having a baby, but without a baby.

I remember that after arriving home again I insisted on never closing the door to the room which would have been Theodore’s.

I remember how the day after we arrived home from the hospital it was Fathers Day. It will always be Father’s day very soon after Theodore’s birth.

I remember my son. One year later and it is all fresh in my mind.

I remember you, Theodore, and I love you.

Inconsistent

One thing that I have noticed over the past several months is how inconsistent my emotions and thoughts can be. Sometimes I can feel two completely contradictory things at once, often towards the same person. And I think that is what a loss like this does.

I am happy for people who are pregnant, but also a bit angry and jealous of them too.

I want babies to be born alive and well and for people to be saved my grief, but something in me also wants to see people suffer in the same way I have.

I wonder, have I shocked you?

Even if you feel disturbed by this, you can’t fix it. There is nothing you can say to me that will change how this is right now. This is grief. It is processing. I even think it could be called progress.

Do I feel bad that sometimes I almost wish that someone else will have a stillbirth like me? Yes, but also no.

Yes, because that is a horrible thing to think. And deep down I don’t want that. It just hurts when you see others getting what was taken away from you.

But also no, because I recognise where that thought comes from. It comes from not wanting to be alone in this. To stop feeling like I am “the only one” this sort of thing happens to. To know beyond a doubt that someone else understands.

This is partly why I write this blog, to share how I feel, what this journey is like, and so I can present my situation to you in a way that invites acknowledgement and support. Because this is a long and often frustrating, confusing and lonely journey.

Even though I know I am probably doing better than the majority of bereaved mothers, I still struggle. I don’t cry everyday, but I do cry. I am not in despair or depressed or angry, but I am still healing.

I am grateful for every bit of support and love and encouragement I have been given.

Most Days

Most days, it is not too hard.

Now, nearly five months after Theodore was born still, I sometimes do not even think of him until something reminds me.

Like, seeing a picture of a baby or a young child. Or hearing the name. Or hearing of someone who is pregnant or who just had a baby. Or seeing the painting of his feet on the wall or the toys that were bought for him.

Daily things, really.

Sometimes the reminders are not too bad. Maybe a little sad. Occasionally relieved that my baby will not have to suffer through what another baby might.

Sometimes they hit so hard. Like suddenly you’re carrying a rock in your stomach and another on your heart. The heaviness and ache and pain and heart-brokenness of those moments cannot be understood by someone who has not experienced it.

Does that mean I have more understanding – that I “get” grief better?

No.

I do not know the pain of watching parents separate. I do not know the pain of losing a parent. I do not know what it is like to lose practically all my belongings in a housefire.

I can imagine, and I can sympathise, but I do not know.

The pain I know is the pain of losing children. Jeremiah was miscarried. Theodore was stillborn.

I know the pain of burying my baby. Of standing in a cemetery, looking at a plaque with my son’s name on it.

But, the pain is not constant. It is not all day, every day.

It is moments throughout my day, most days.